“Et in Arcadia Ego”

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“Et in Arcadia ego.”

Even in Arcadia, that is, “I, Death, hold sway.”

We do not inhabit Arcadia. Yet in our profane chunk of existence, we are reminded that Death rules.

Last evening we were handed an obituarial notice.

It was not the obituarial notice of an immediate family member.

It was not even the obituarial notice of a cherished acquaintance.

It was rather the obituary notice of a loose and distant acquaintance, aged 59 years.

He was a classmate of our elder brother.

74 Pleasant Ridge Road, Harrison, NY, 10528 was the site of our youthful nest.

There our family harbored a basemented gymnasium. Our decedent descended into it often to push iron weights around with our brother.

That is our summarized memory of him.

We had not exchanged one word with this fellow in 41 years. His existence had not once — to our recollection — invaded our consciousness in these intervening 41 years.

Our closest transaction with him was a financial transaction. In that transaction fireworks were exchanged for money — a bushel of bottle rockets as we recall.

The rockets were his and the money was ours.

As a devilish youth with a quenchless lust for detonative entertainments… we were hot for them.

And he serviced that lust — to our everlasting gratitude.

Yet that was the maximum of our personal interaction.

And now he is over the rainbow.

We nonetheless envision this fellow now, 41 years distant, his face the face of a swashbuckling youth.

That face is presently the face of a corpse.

And 41 years later, the news of his transition into ether went home.

It penetrated our skin, breached our skeletal defenses… and settled at a location behind the middle ribs.

That is, in our heart. Why?

After all: A fellow does not mourn the keeling of a slight acquaintance from his ancient past.

We instead mourn him because… in one sense… we mourn ourself.

His dying shoveled up recollections of our lost, distant and misspent youth.

Misspent? It does not matter.

A man cherishes his youth misspent or well spent… as he cherishes a reassuring and comforting blanket… or an aging pair of slippers.

Its scents were fresher. Its sights, vivider. Its experiences, sharper.

A man’s past stands in high contrast to his present. That is because his present is often a dull, dull place beside it.

As observed the infinitely deceased Henry Louis Mencken:

The basic fact about human existence is not that it is a tragedy, but that it is a bore. It is not so much a war as an endless standing in line.

A man’s past is never a bore. He never stood endlessly in line.

He instead slayed dragons, stormed castles, conquered continents and sailed the seven seas.

That is, his past is always a land of rich and glorious theater.

This was the Arcadia we visited yesterday.

Today we resume our position in endless and boring line — one day nearer the grave.

Yet we cling to a stoic and resigned serenity.

Thus we are with Daily Reckoning co-founder Mr. Bill Bonner:

“Amor Fati” is our motto. We accept that there are booms and busts… births and deaths… ups and downs. Were there no downs, there would be no ups. It is only the relative motion that gives it meaning; it is the looming grave that makes life above ground so jolly.

There seem to be cycles for just about everything… huge old trees get worn down by age, worms, bugs, bores, drought and storms. They fall. And the new trees flourish. 

(In the article below, Bill Bonner reflects upon the cycles of empires, their births and deaths. We encourage you to read it.)

Today we are reminded of the life cycle.

We detect mortality creeping its way in our direction… like a tiptoeing cat.

And in desperate moments — we have them — we have sensed the breath of angels caressing our cheek.

Meantime, our gait lacks the rambunctious vigor of our youth. The leaves upon our head go gray.

Our eagle vision begins to soften and the world’s sharp edges begin to blur.

“Is that an eight or a zero?” we wonder, squinting against the dinner bill.

Yet life proceeds… until it does not.

The decedent under discussion today did not exit Earth in high and glorious heroics.

He did not die a hero of war. He did not die battling fire or scotching crime.

He simply died.

That is — in every likelihood — precisely how you will die.

It is how your editor will likely die.

“Et in Arcadia ego.”

Well, friends, the Grim Reaper has tapped our acquaintance upon the shoulder… the Archangel Gabriel has blown his horn…

And St. Peter has had another ghostly defendant standing before him — and the imposing gates he guards.

It is our sincere hope that Peter ruled this particular defendant innocent… and allowed him on through.

Sleep peacefully and eternally, Billy Canavan.

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